


but never too much

by mardia



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Desk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Established Relationship, Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8936080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: “I promise you,” Nightingale says, and I shiver again at the low rasp in his voice, “I have no intention of stopping.”“All right,” I say, closing my eyes as I give myself up to this, to Nightingale’s hands on my body, to the unforgiving surface of the desk, to the trust between us that means I can do this in the first place. “That’s good--God, this is going to be so good.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, esteliel! I saw your Yuletide letter requesting Peter/Nightingale fic with an option of writing kinky fic, and about 3,000+ words of shameless porn later, this is the result. /o\ Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> The title comes from the song "Givin' Em What They Love" by Janelle Monae and Prince. Huge thanks to my beta for the speedy Britpick, any remaining errors are mine alone.

Logically, stumbling into Nightingale’s room in the middle of the night while inebriated is very probably not the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Even if we are...well, what we are now, and even if I’m sure he won’t turn me off to my own room, it’s probably not the decision I’d make if I’d stuck to having a Pepsi at the pub tonight. 

Except that I hadn’t stuck to soft drinks tonight, and right now, with alcohol running through my system, crawling into bed with Nightingale--with _Thomas_ \--seems like the best idea I’ve had all night. 

So I do, I make my way up the stairs and down the corridor to Nightingale’s room, and open the door and slip through as quietly as I can. 

That’s probably not as quietly as I need to, as I stumble over my own feet trying to get my shoes off, hissing at the noise, and trying to wriggle out of my shirt at the same time--and with one thing and another, it’s not really a surprise when Nightingale rises up from the bed to flick the bedside lamp on, warm light flooding the room. 

I freeze mid-motion, and flash what I hope is a winning smile. “Um. Hello.”

Nightingale is very obviously still sleepy, blinking at me as he sits up in the bed. His hair’s a rumpled mess, which makes for an amusing contrast with his proper pajamas, with actual buttons on the top and everything--but he’s still awake enough to raise an eyebrow at me. “Hello, Peter.” His gaze travels down my body, taking note of the contortions I’ve somehow got myself into, and his eyebrow flicks up even higher. “Do you need some help?”

“No,” I say. “I just got back from the pub and I thought--” It’s late and I’m too drunk to watch my tongue, which is why I say next, “I wanted to come in here and spend the night with you.”

“Oh,” Nightingale says, and he doesn’t look displeased at the idea. Far from it, actually. “Well, then, you’d best get inside. There’s a draft.”

I beam at him, happy. “Oh, good.” I finally manage to wriggle my arms free of my jacket and unceremoniously drop it on the floor, scrambling out of the rest of my clothes. Nightingale sighs a little--he takes far better care with his clothes than I can ever be bothered to--but doesn’t actually say anything. Just for that, I pick up my clothes and stack them on the chair by Nightingale’s desk. “Better?”

Nightingale’s settled himself back against the pillow, and he gives me a drowsy, amused smile. “Much, thank you.”

Once I’ve got down to my boxers, I get in underneath the bedcovers quickly, sliding in close to Nightingale and his warmth. Nightingale, for all that I’ve woken him up and horrified him with my shameful clothing habits, immediately reels me in by putting his arm around my waist, dragging me in for a kiss, his warm lips moving slowly against mine in a way that says he could be persuaded into staying up, if I was in the mood to properly motivate him. 

And God, am I motivated. I press myself against Nightingale’s body, kissing him back until Nightingale’s pushing me down on my back, bracing himself above me as he licks into my mouth, letting out a low hum of approval as I go pliant beneath him, opening my legs so he can settle between them, my erection rubbing against his through the thin layers of clothing still separating our bodies. 

Nightingale finally moves away from my mouth, dropping kisses onto my cheek, then my jaw, before finally settling at the delicate skin at the side of my neck. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight at the pub?” he asks, his mouth moving against my skin as he speaks, his breath hot. 

“Yeah,” I sighed out, tilting up my chin to give him better access. While he’s busy, I slide my hands up underneath his shirt, letting my fingers glide up and down his spine, the small of his back. “It was all right. Kept getting distracted, though.”

I can tell Nightingale’s smiling at that, even before he lifts his head back up to look at me. “Peter Grant, being distracted. What a rare event.” 

He’s grinning down at me, eyes crinkled with amusement and a lock of hair falling over his forehead, and a wave of affection hits me at that exact moment, looking up at him. God, I’m lucky. 

I don’t say it, of course. The words stick in my throat, always have. 

“What distracted you? Your experiments?” Nightingale hasn’t noticed the look on my face, or if he has, he’s ignoring it in favor of dragging a hand down my bare chest, deliberately rubbing at my nipple with his thumb, before pinching it. “Don’t tell me you were distracted by architecture tonight.”

“I wasn’t,” I say, my voice rising up into a gasp as he pinches my nipple again, harder this time. Nightingale’s gaze has gone a little sharper now, he’s sitting up so as better to see me, to see what he’s doing to me. “I was thinking--” That last drink I had is doing its work now, as the words slip out. “I was thinking of this. Of coming here, of coming to bed with you.”

Nightingale’s hands momentarily go still. “Were you?” He moves his hand lower, lets it trail down my abdomen and lower still, until he’s cupping my cock through my boxers. “What were you--were you thinking of anything in particular.”

“Oh God,” I say, my hips jerking up into his hand, chasing the friction of him touching me like that, even through a layer of cotton. “What _didn’t_ I think about, Christ.”

My face is flushed as I admit to it, heat flooding my cheeks, my ears, but that doesn’t matter when Nightingale’s looking at me like that, all of that focus narrowed down to me, those gray eyes alight. 

“Tell me,” Nightingale murmurs, his hand sliding in beneath the waistband of my boxers at last, loosely gripping my cock in his warm grip. “Peter, tell me.”

“Get your clothes off,” I groan, plucking at the front of his pyjamas. My fingers feel too thick and clumsy to fiddle with the tiny buttons, but drunk or no, I’m not stupid enough to try and rip them off. Nightingale leans in to give me a quick, hard kiss, and I groan again as he pulls back, his thumb sliding over the head of my cock, right where it’s already leaking. 

“Tell me,” he urges again, but this time he’s at least sitting up onto his knees so he can shove his trousers down over his hips. My mouth goes dry as I watch him methodically licking at his own hand, and when he leans in over me again, it’s so he can take us both in hand, his cock rubbing against mine in a way that has me swearing and clutching at him to drag him in even closer. 

For a second I don’t think I’ll be able to answer him, I truly don’t, but then Nightingale says, “Peter,” right against my ear, and the pleading note in it sends a spark down my spine, has me dragging in air so I can speak. 

“Thought about coming in here like this,” I say in a low voice, my eyes falling shut as he strokes us both. “Hoped you were still awake, still--oh God, do that again--”

“Yes?” Nightingale says, his hand slowing down like the very worst kind of tease, and I squirm beneath him, my hands creeping in underneath his pyjama top again, clutching at his hips. 

“The whole time I was thinking about what if I’d just stayed at home with you, what if I’d talked you out of reading the _Telegraph_ so you could just, just--” My voice cracks, but Nightingale’s breathing has gone heavier in my ear, I know he likes this, I know he wants--

“I keep thinking about that desk,” I say at last, my voice hurried and low, eyes squeezed shut because I can’t look at him and say this stuff, I just can’t. “That big desk in the general library, I keep wishing you’d take me and bend me right over it and just, just _use_ me however you’d like--”

“Peter,” Nightingale says, his voice choked, his hand speeding up, the grip tight, just how I like it, just how I want it to be. “Peter, look at me.”

His voice is just tender enough that somehow I can manage it, my face burning as I open my eyes, and God, the way he is looking at me right now, his grey eyes gone wide, lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“Would you let me do that?” he asks. 

I nod. “Yeah,” I admit, arching up as he grinds his hips down, our bodies falling together into this hot, dirty rhythm. “I’d let you do it, you could hold me down over that desk while you fucked me, just hold me there and--”

That’s it so far as Nightingale’s concerned, as he shuts me up with a fierce kiss, his teeth sharp on my lip as he takes possession of my mouth. I moan into it as I kiss him back for all I’m worth, grinding up against him until I come with a gasp between our bodies, Nightingale following me not a moment later, coming hot and slick against my cock, the crease of my hip.

After I’ve come, exhaustion is spreading throughout my body, weighing me down into the bed, but I still say, because it’s suddenly very important he believe me, “I really would let you, you know.”

“I know,” Nightingale says, sounding winded, pressing a kiss to the side of my face, his mouth warm and soft against my skin. “I know you would.”

*

The next morning at the breakfast table, I have a hard time looking Nightingale in the eye. 

Not because I’m embarrassed about what happened last night, but because if I do look up at Nightingale, I’ll start thinking about it again, in detail, and that’s just not a feasible move when Molly’s apt to wander in at any time, or when we’ve got Toby lurking under the table, hoping to get a sausage or two sneaked down to him. 

Nightingale, however, doesn’t seem to have the same problem. The entire time, I can feel him watching me, gaze drifting up from the Telegraph’s sport section to watch me with that considering gaze of his, the wheels turning in his head.

I could pretend like I don’t know what he’s thinking about, but I’ve never been that good of a liar. 

And eventually, Nightingale breaks the silence, clearing his throat as he says, “So I was thinking it over--perhaps we might leave off watching that rugby match this afternoon.”

A flutter of excitement rises up in my stomach, but I manage to keep my voice fairly even as I look up at this. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” Nightingale says, and even if his expression is one of studied nonchalance, I can see the flush creeping up from his collar. “The general library needs some reorganizing, I feel. No need to bother Molly with it, I think, we should manage well enough on our own.”

I find it hard to keep a smile off my face at this point. To be fair, I’m not trying very hard at all. “Yeah, that sounds all right.”

“Excellent,” Nightingale says, and the upward curve of his mouth is the best thing I’m likely to see this morning. “I rather thought it would be.”

*

“You’re free to change your mind at any moment, of course,” Nightingale murmurs in my ear, but with the way he’s holding me from behind, his hands stealing up under my shirt to run up and down my bare chest, how it feels to have him holding me this close from behind, the solid weight and bulk of him against me--a change of heart is the furthest thing from my mind, if I’m honest. 

The library’s curtains have been drawn, of course, but the lit lamps in the room give everything a warm, hazy glow. “I’m good,” I say, my voice already faint, far-away. “Trust me.”

I’m gripping the edge of the desk so hard that it almost hurts, and I know I’ll have imprints on my palms before long. 

“Of course,” Nightingale reassures me, pressing a soft kiss to the delicate skin beneath my ear. Two of his fingers trail along my stomach, beneath my navel, and the casual possession in that small gesture makes my mouth go dry. 

I’m about to open my mouth and beg him to just do it already, but Nightingale’s already a half-step ahead of me, as he takes a deep breath--pressed this close to him, I can feel it as his chest expands--and then he steps back, his hand moving to press between my shoulderblades, pushing me down until I’m finally bend over the desk, the wood cool against my cheek, my breath coming in unsteady pants as Nightingale arranges my body just so, his grip strong on the back of my neck. 

I’m so hard that I’m aching in my jeans, my breath is coming in quick, unsteady puffs of air, and right in that moment, with Nightingale’s hand at the back of my neck, Nightingale leaning in over me, Nightingale right there with me, about to give me everything that I want--there’s nowhere else I could imagine wanting to be. 

“Oh my God,” I mumble, so turned on that I’m nearly dizzy with it.

I can’t actually see Nightingale’s face, but I can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “All right?”

“Don’t you dare stop,” I tell him, urgently, and even if I can’t see his face, I can picture it--the way his grin widens, the teeth in it. 

“I promise you,” Nightingale says, and I shiver again at the low rasp in his voice, “I have no intention of stopping.”

“All right,” I say, closing my eyes as I give myself up to this, to Nightingale’s hands on my body, to the unforgiving surface of the desk, to the trust between us that means I can do this in the first place. “That’s good--God, this is going to be so good.”

And it is. God, it _really_ is, starting with the possessive way Nightingale touches me as he gets my jeans and boxers down to my ankles, his hand palming my arse as he casually says, “Spread your legs wider for me.”

I shudder even harder at that, but I do it, gulping in air unsteadily as Nightingale takes out the lube, slicking up his fingers and then he’s got his fingers on me, his free hand gripping my hip to hold me still as he thrusts one finger in shallowly, taking his time. 

I swallow, my throat feeling dry as he continues to work me open, wishing desperately that I could wrap my own hand around my aching cock, but I know Nightingale won’t go for it, that he wouldn’t let me--and Christ, isn’t that working me up even more, imagining him telling me not to touch myself. That I’m not allowed to do anything but take what he’ll give me. 

“Harder,” I mumble, turning my head to find a cool spot on the desk to rest my cheek. “Please, just--harder.”

Nightingale pauses at this, but only for a moment. “As you wish,” is all he murmurs, but that gorgeous low tone to his voice has me shivering, and then he’s pushing a second finger inside of me, the stretch and burn making me gasp, making me swear behind my gritted teeth. 

“Please,” I moan, pushing myself back onto his fingers, shameless and greedy, even though he’s giving it to me exactly as I asked, even though he’s already giving me everything I want. “I just want--”

“I know what you want,” Nightingale says, and it would sound harsh except for the breathless quality to his voice, the way he’s gripping at my hip like it’d kill him to let go, the way he’s got his fingers crooked as he thrusts them in and out until he can find the exact right spot, and then he does, and I let out a soft cry, all my nerves going electric. 

Over the pounding in my ears, I can hear Nightingale swearing under his breath, can feel his nails momentarily digging into my flesh just that much harder. He doesn’t pause to ask if I’m all right, he doesn’t check himself, he just focuses on driving me out of my head, fucking me open with his long fingers until I can’t speak, until I can’t even fucking _think_.

“Please,” I vaguely hear myself begging. “Oh God, Thomas, just fuck me, please, I can’t--”

“All right,” Nightingale says, his voice gone entirely hoarse by now. “All right, Peter.” And then his fingers are slipping out of me, and I’d moan at the feeling of loss, at feeling so empty, except then Nightingale’s pushing the head of his thick cock inside of me at last, and I bury my face in the crook of my arm, gasping all the while until he’s flush against me, filling me up, stretching me open.

I can feel the fabric of his trousers brushing against the back of my legs, and even that tiny detail threatens to push me over the edge entirely, my body clenching around his cock, my mind so blank from an overload of sensation that it’s all I can do to even manage to breathe in gulps of air. 

“Tell me you’re all right,” Nightingale groans, bending over me with his mouth to my ear, his lips and breath hot against my skin. “Peter, Christ, just tell me if--”

“Move,” I whisper back to him, then say it louder again. “God, please move, just go ahead and fuck me right here.”

It’s a beautiful, fantastic thing, the way that Nightingale takes me exactly at my word, pulling back so that he can start to fuck me at last, hips thrusting forward in a fast, nearly brutal rhythm, nothing tender in it at all. 

Except that it’s all tenderness, every minute of it, and I shove myself back against him, riding him as much as he’s riding me, gripping the edge of the desk so tightly that I know I’ll have bruises when this is over, that my hands will be cramped and aching and I don’t care, I can’t make myself care. Not when Nightingale’s on me and inside of me like this, fucking me roughly until all I can think of is him, and the picture we must make, me spread out on this antique desk while he fucks me until I’m a begging wreck.

“Perfect,” I hear him groan. “My God, you--absolutely _perfect--_ ” And then he does it, slides one hand around my waist to grip my cock at last, give me something to fuck into, and takes his other hand and presses down on the back of my neck, holding me down and holding me still, making me take it, and that’s it, I’m gone, I shut my eyes and cry out as I come into his fist, my mind wiped clear, completely overcome.

Nightingale doesn’t last much longer after that, holding me still as he fucks into me with a few rough, off-rhythm thrusts until he comes, spilling inside of me with a hot rush.

Neither one of us can move at first. I’m completely out of it in fact, and Nightingale’s only a little better, slumped on top of me, brushing kisses along the back of my neck, murmuring soothing things that I can’t make out while I shiver and come back to myself, inch by inch. “Christ, that was amazing,” I say at last, groaning as I let go of the desk’s edge at last, feeling the pain in my fingers and not minding it a bit. “I’m glad I thought of it. Good work, me.”

Nightingale bursts out laughing at this. “Yes, Peter, your brilliance is without peer,” he says, teasing, but the way he brushes another kiss against my skin is so fond that it brings a smile to my face, right before I twist around to kiss him properly, closing my eyes as I do.


End file.
